


Bloody Wrists and Burning SKin

by Trekkiehood



Series: Bloody Wrists [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Burning, Cutting, Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Dean Winchester Whump, Gen, Hell, Hurt Dean Winchester, Nightmares, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam is trying, Season/Series 04, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Dean Winchester, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, but not doing so hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekkiehood/pseuds/Trekkiehood
Summary: Dean doesn't know how to fix what was broken in Hell.He doesn't know how to stop the nightmares or his brother's late night excursions. All he knows is that he doesn't want to disappoint Alistair. If Sam is gone and Alistair wants Dean to be in pain, Dean is willing to make it happen.Set between 4x10 and 4x16tw: self-harm, rape, torture, mention of suicide, Stockholm Syndrome
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Alistair, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Bloody Wrists [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124534
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	Bloody Wrists and Burning SKin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, long time no see. Since today is Dean Winchester's birthday I decided that I'd finally finish writing this fic I've been working on. It's dark, so be sure to read the warnings.
> 
> Thanks to pricelesstrashpanda for the help editing!
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean was used to missing people. He missed a lot of people. His mom. His dad. Pastor Jim. His brother in a lot of ways. He understood the ardent longing deep in his bones that meant he was longing to be with someone he may never be with again. He knew the feeling. Which made the current, empty ache in his chest even more confusing.

Because it’s not that Dean misses Alistair. He doesn’t. In fact, he hates Alistair. Hates him with every inch of his being. Hates him in a way that only people who’ve been to Hell can hate. It burns in him in a way that isn’t completely human. And Dean hates it. Hates the hate buried inside him that can never be realized for fear of becoming the Dean from Heck. But there’s an… emptiness. A longing deep within him that he can’t quite explain. Can’t quite… quench. 

_“Come now Dean-o. You can’t really think that I’m going to let you get away with this? You know it’s so much easier when you do it yourself. It makes me… proud.” Alistair smiles, spreading his hands out. The smile drops and a sharpened razor appears in his hand. He sighs. “However, if you make me intervene, we both know what will happen.”_

Dean sits up straight in bed, unsure if the words come from a dream or a memory. His throat aches with unremembered screams and he feels a slight blush on his cheeks at the realization. He glances towards the other bed, unsurprised, but still hurt, to see his brother’s empty sheets. The motel alarm clock blinks 2:37. Sam probably won’t be back for around three hours. Give or take. Dean isn’t sure if knowing where Sam heads off too every night would make him feel better or worse. 

He lies back, running a hand through his hair. His skin… itches. It’s too… perfect. When before his body was littered with thousands of scars, each one telling a different story of perseverance and survival, he’s now a near blank canvas. The brand of an angel's hand. A line where he was forced to prove he was human. Tiny white lines across the tops of knuckles from busting out of a coffin with his bare hands. Small scars. Few scars. And no pain. He thinks it’s the lack of pain that itches the most. 

_“Did you really think being off the Rack meant you were done, Dean? You? The favorite? Especially when you’ve disappointed me. I told you I wanted them disassembled by the end of the day. But you’ve barely scratched their skin. You ‘let them rest,’” he says in air quotes, disdain dripping from his lips, “But I’ll tell you what, another deal if you will.” And Dean’s eyes are wild as he shakes his head. Because no. No more deals. A deal landed him here. A deal got him off the rack causing his humanity to struggle and cause his current reprimand. He didn’t know if he could take any more deals._

_Alistair continues, the gleam in his eye the familiar mark of him being pleased with himself. “You take care of yourself.” It sounds so simple yet so complicated at the same time. “I’ll let you choose your own weapons and punishment. And I’ll leave you alone to deal it to yourself. So long as you keep to your already blooming potential. Don’t go easy on yourself now.” He says shaking his finger as if he’s rebuking a toddler. “I’ll inform you when you’ve disappointed me, and you can deal your own punishments.”_

_Dean is sure it’s a good deal. He doesn’t want Alistair to hurt him. He doesn’t want Alistair to touch him ever again. But he finds himself shaking his head, murmuring “I-I can’t.”_

_Alistair frowns as if he’s disappointed but Dean can clearly see the spark of longing and excitement in his master’s (is that what Alistair is to him? He doesn’t want to think about it) eyes,_

_Dean takes a step back but his back hits a bloodstained wall and he finds he has no place to go. Alistair advances towards him, slowly as if relishing the moment. The razor still gleaming in his hand and he closes the distance between hunter and prey. This is the first time he has been punished in any way since he got off the Rack. Whether this is the first time he was caught showing mercy or if Alistair was just waiting for the right moment to call him out on it, Dean is unsure. It doesn’t matter. Dean presses himself against the wall, straining his neck upward to get away from the demon’s presence. Alistair is up against him, one hand wrapped tightly around Dean’s right wrist, the other holding the razor to his exposed throat. Dean absently wonders if Alistair intends on cutting his vocal cords before the “fun” even begins. He doubted it. Alistair liked to hear him scream. He feels Alistair’s hand shift, making a small knick in Dean’s neck but not causing any real damage. Dean doesn’t even flinch. This is nothing. He knows much worse is to come._

_Alistair moves the knife and it lightly trails against Dean’s chest before cutting deep enough to slice the fabric and leaving a thin scratch on his skin. “You know Dean,” He says flirtatiously and Dean knows what’s coming. He knows and he wishes Alistair would just torture him instead. Would just use his blade to cut away his filthy skin instead of defiling him in a way that made Dean feel dirty and used. “It’s been a while. And not since you got those pretty restraints off.” And as the words continue Dean wishes he’d accepted the deal. But he knows he waited too long. He’s trapped in his choice. Again. Accept the deal or don’t. He always regrets his decision. It’s as if it’s impossible for him to make the right decision. “Let’s see how much fun you are with all that extra… mobility.” Dean feels the knife cutting through the fabric, being moved away revealing bare skin and he forces himself to retreat deep into himself. This was one instance where he decides he should have said yes._

Dean’s eyes snap open. Memory. That one was a memory. It takes him nearly five minutes before he can get the proper amount of air in his lungs without choking. 3:05. Still a couple of hours before Sam would get back from… wherever. 

He gets up. A third try isn’t worth it. Not tonight. He heads to the bathroom and flips on the light. He’s pale. Dark rings under his eyes. He can nearly see his ribs through the thin white shirt he’s wearing and makes a mental note to wear more layers to bed so Sammy doesn’t worry. If Sam even notices. 

The mirror isn’t friendly to him. Hasn’t been since he returned from Hell. He’s sallow and weak and broken and still not in enough pain to quench this desire, this itch, this longing that makes him wonder what Alistair is doing. 

_“You don’t need me to do it. You learned to deal your own punishments. Make me proud, Dean.”_

He doesn’t know where the voice is coming from. There’s no one there. He’s not dreaming. And it’s not a memory. Dean doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but before he realizes what’s happening he’s rummaging through his bag to find his razor. He has other weapons. Hundreds of other weapons. But the razor feels… right. 

And Dean knows he has to get this right. This isn’t Heck. It may be pretty close, but if he injures himself beyond repair, he won’t be magically healed and ready for round two. 

The razor makes a loud noise as it drops onto the sink and Dean flinches, and for the first time, is glad that Sam’s not there. His watch is next, his bracelets were removed earlier and he had never put them back on. He’d have to find them before Sam got back. 

His right hand picks up the blade while his left arm braces against the off-white porcelain. He hesitates only a moment before bringing the blade down and swiping it across his wrist. After a moment the thin line wells with blood. And Dean feels like he could breathe for the first time in weeks. He was careful. Each line only deep enough to bleed superficially - not dangerously. 

After six cuts, he stops. He has no intention of visiting Alistair any time soon. And the last thing he wants is for Sam to see what he was doing. Dean had a feeling he’d be weird about it. Assuming Sam even noticed. 

Dean presses on the bleeding cuts with toilet paper. When the blood has died down to a slow trickle, he flushes the evidence of his excursion down the toilet and replaces his watch. His right arm was still clean so there was no reason to worry about his bracelets right now. He cleans his blade, hesitating before slipping it back into his bag. He hates to admit it, but he feels... right. For the first time since returning from Hell, he felt okay. 

He felt calm. Lying down on his bed, he closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of motel life. He evens out his breathing, trying not to allow the silence of the empty bed to bother him. 

_“You did good boy.” the rasping voice whispers. “I’m proud of you.”_

Dean’s eyes snap open. He presses against his wrist, allowing the band of his watch to aggravate the torn skin. 

He hears the noise of a key entering the lock of the door. He closes his eyes again, feigning sleep as he always does when Sam makes his early morning returns. The door opens and shuts quietly. Surprisingly quiet footsteps for such a large man sound across the floor. The covers slipped back and Sam let out a deep breath. 

Alistair’s voice was gone now. Dean slipped into a tentative sleep. 

~SPN~

It helped. It was the only thing that did. His forearm was covered in thin white lines and shallow cuts. Nobody notices. He’s glad. He really is. He wore long sleeves and let his bracelets and watch cover the marks. So it made sense that no one noticed. Not even Sam. But he was glad. He really was. 

So was Alistair. Most of the time. 

Sam would leave. Alistair would appear. He’d come and whisper to Dean. Telling Dean what he could do to make him happy. What he could do to make him proud. And Dean didn’t need Alistair’s approval. He hated Alistair. He did. Appeasing him was just the easiest thing to do. 

_“You’ve disappointed me, Dean-o.” Alistair frowns. “I thought we were past this. You seemed to almost… enjoy your work. Then you go and show mercy.” He shakes his head._

_“H-he didn’t- they shouldn’t b-be here.”_

_“Oh Dean, they made a deal, same as you. Of course they deserve to be here.”_

_Dean shakes his head, “No, it was-wasn’t like that. Their child was dying. They had to.”_

_Alistair sighs, “Dean, your reason doesn’t matter. Their reason doesn’t matter. You’ve disappointed me. You know what that means?”_

_Dean jerks his head up and down, bracing himself, breath hitching._

_“You know what would make me proud, Dean-o? Y’know what would make it up to me?”_

_Dean watches him warily, staying silent until he was forced to speak._

_“Punish yourself,” Alistair says with a smile, holding out his favorite razor._

_The razor glistens in the hellfire. Dean hesitantly reaches out his hand grabbing the razor blade tightly, allowing it to sink into his hand and cause a deep, bloody cut._

_“Make me proud, Dean.”_

_He brings the sharp edge down onto his own skin. Making Alistair proud becomes his new goal._

Dean startles awake. Alistair wasn’t happy with him. 

The opposite bed is empty but Dean doesn’t even blink. The other bed was always empty. He needs to make Alistair proud of him. He couldn’t stand the thought of the alternative. 

He stumbles to the bathroom, flicking on the light. The long sleeve shirt is yanked over his head quickly and he fumbles with his watch and bracelets. His bare chest is unnaturally pale in the cheap motel light. His green eyes dull and surrounded by black shadows contrasting with the stark white face. He’s drenched in sweat, his breaths coming short gasps. 

Razor in hand, he makes a slash. Then another. Then another. He can’t stop. It isn’t helping. There was the sting. And blood. And everything that always helped, but it wasn’t enough. Isn’t enough. Alistair wouldn’t approve. Something’s missing. Something important. 

He was beginning to feel light headed from the untreated cuts. He’s never done this much at once. Alistair has never asked him to do so much. Not on earth at least. Where injuries are permanent and once your skin is gone, it takes months not hours to replenish. 

Something’s missing. Something would make this feel right. He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, clenching his fist, relishing the fresh sting it caused. 

_“You know what’s missing, Dean-o. The same thing that took your mummy.”_

“Fire.” Dean says with a start, looking down at his blood soaked arm. Alistair wanted him to burn. 

He rummages in the dark until he pulls out his Zippo. He flicks it open and watches the flame dance in the darkness. Blood glistens off of his right hand and drips on the floor from his left arm. 

_“There we are, Dean. Time to make me proud.”_

The flame is brought it up to his face. He can feel the heat, see the brightness searing his eyes. He places the flame against his chest, a little over an inch above his anti-possession tattoo. 

The pain flares and his breathing hitches. It feels right. He can hear Alistair whispering to him. Encouraging him. Telling him he’s doing good, but not good enough. 

It wasn’t enough. 

He hears a noise outside. Something unrecognizable but oddly familiar. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t enough. Alistair isn’t happy with him. He isn’t good enough. If he didn’t do better Alistair would do it himself. He doesn’t want Alistair’s hands on him. Not to hurt him. Not to caress him. He doesn’t want to feel the hurt that only Alistair knows how to cause. 

Dean jams the lighter into his shoulder, letting out a mix between a gasp and a shout. The flame extinguishes, the heated metal burning him far deeper than the fire alone had. 

“Dean!” The lights are on. Bright blinding lights. And the smell of burning flesh. And there are hands on him. But they had a deal!

He jerks away, the lighter falling from his hands. “No, no, no, don-don’t touch me! I did what you asked. I did it! Y-you can’t!” Maybe he had gone too far. Bled too much. Maybe Alistair has dragged him back down into the Pit.

“Dean, Dean calm down. It’s me, it’s Sam. Just - oh Dean I- just wait, okay? Don’t move.”

He is forcibly sat down on one of the two chairs provided by the hotel. He blinks. The pain is still there, but he feels…. Numb at the same time. His head is spinning and the lights are too bright. 

There are hands against him. Something cold touches his burning shoulder and he pushes against the hands. “Stop,” He moans. 

“Dean, Dean I need you to look at me. Look, I need you to calm down. It’s me, I’m here. Let me help you.” 

His eyes blur the sight in front of him and he frowns, no longer pushing against the hands. “Alistair?” He mumbles as if he’s asking for someone dear to him and not the one responsible for a lifetime of torture.

The movement stops and the man in front of him makes a pained, shocked sound. “No, Dean, no, no.”

Hands reach up and catch his face. Dean flinches but the grip stays firm. “Dean, Dean I need you to look at me. Just… just look at me. Okay? It’s me. It’s Sam. I’m here. A-Alistair, he’s, he’s not- Alistair’s not here. You’re out Dean. You’re out.”

The voice clicks and he feels disoriented and confused but whispers, “S-sam?” He blinks and the face in front of him swims into focus, a look of relief in Sam’s eyes. “Wha-what‘ime is it?”

The hands readjust the cool cloth on his shoulder. “It’s 3:30 Dean, what did you do to yourself?” There’s a panicked edge in Sam’s rushed words as he applies pressure to Dean’s wrist. Most of the bleeding had begun to trickle instead of poor. Deeper than he meant but still not fatal. He was careful. “What did you use?” 

Dean doesn’t answer. Mind still fuzzy. 3:30? What was Sam doing here? 

The hands stop again. Barely contained terror and concern in his brother’s voice, “Dean this my hotel room. We checked in together last night.” 

Oh, had he said that out loud? 

“Know that. But i’z still early. You don’t norm’ly get back ‘til 5.” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Dean, do you, how do you-?”

“Don’t sleep much Sammy.” 

There’s silence while Sam continues cleaning off the smeared blood. Dean lets him. His mind slowly coming back to him. It feels so much more… real when Sam is here. Alistair never told him to do things when Sam was there. Alistair never even shows up until Sam leaves the room. 

Dean wants to feel embarrassed but he’s just so tired. And it hurt. The burn. The cuts. The high was gone leaving only the aching pain. And he isn’t happy Sam found out about it. He really isn’t. But he almost feels a lightness in his chest with the knowledge that someone knows. That someone noticed. 

The last of the blood is cleared away and Sam stops. Dean looks down to his wrist and views line after line of broken and healing skin. Thin white lines as well as pink raised wounds. He went higher than he meant to and had cut above what his watch would have covered. He supposed it doesn’t really matter anymore. Sam knows now. Which he definitely isn’t glad about. Of course not. He didn’t want Sam to notice. That’s why he had been hiding it. 

“Wow. Dean. That’s -” Sam looks up at him but Dean can’t make eye contact for longer than a second. Sam looks away, pulling out gauze and begins wrapping the arm. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean sighs, not pulling his eyes away from Sam’s work. “Come on Sammy. I really don’t feel like a lecture right now.”

“I’m not,” Sam rubs his face with one hand, “I’m not mad. I just need- Dean you- You could have…” He trails off, realization sparking in his eyes. He pales, swallowing thickly, eyes blinking rapidly. “Dean were you trying to-” 

Dean locks eyes with him as Sam struggles to finish his thought. Dean feels tired. No, exhausted. He’s honestly not sure what Sam’s trying to get out and is too tired to try to mentally work it out. 

“Dean,” Sam starts again, sounding like he did when he was six and just starting to realize that monsters were real but not quite sure how to ask about them. Unsure if he wanted to know the truth. “Were you trying to…” He pauses again and Dean’s beginning to wonder if Sam has some form of head injury. He hadn’t had a concussion before, but who knew what his little brother had been up to the last few hours. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

Dean blinks owlishly, not completely understanding the question. He glances down at his now white swabbed wrist, resisting the urge to press down on where he knows the worst of the cuts are hidden. He absently picks at the corner of the wrapping. 

“Dean?” Sam asks in that overly soft voice, half childish fear, half addressing a wounded animal. Sam had always been good at things like that. Softening his voice to encompass so many different emotions. 

The older Winchester looks up and sees the tears beginning to pool in his brother’s eyes. Dean manages to shake his head. “No. It wasn’t- I don’t want to go back there, Sammy. I wouldn’t-” He glances away, no longer able to keep his brother’s gaze. 

“Okay, okay good.” Sam clears his throat, sounding only slightly relieved. “How long?” His voice is more calculating now, as if he’s trying to detach himself from the situation. 

“Can’t we do this in the morning?” Dean sighs, using his right hand to rub his eyes. 

Sam frowns, reaching into the first aid kit and pulling out burn-cream. “No.” He says, removing the now warm cloth. “How long, Dean?” His eyes are still shining with unshed tears, but he has a tightness to his mouth that lets Dean know he’s not getting out of this tonight.

“Couple weeks? Month maybe?” 

The tightness grows in Sam’s features and Dean notes the signs of guilt written on his brother’s face. “What do you use for,” He motions towards the bandaged wrist.

“Razor.” Maybe if he just gives an honest answer Sam will leave him alone. 

Sam only grunts and they sit in silence for several moments. Dean thinks he may have gotten his wish. 

“Any other burns?” Tight-lipped and stressed. 

Dean sighs, shaking his head lightly. 

Sam offers a single nod of confirmation.

The silence stretches past the completion of tending to his wounds. Dean desperately wants to go to his bed and sleep, but that requires movement and he really just doesn’t feel up to that right now. He closes his eyes, leaning his head back, letting Sam stare at him without comment. 

“Why?” Sam practically whimpers, the broken voice tugging at something in the center of Dean's chest. 

Dean wants to sigh. Wants to shrug and deflect and do everything Dean Winchester would normally do. But he’s so tired and he doesn’t even realize when he whispers the words “He told me to.” 

Sam takes a sharp breath and Dean forces his eyes open only after Sam grips his arm tightly. “Who Dean? Who told you to do this?”

He’s done this much damage already, might as well tell him, “Alistair.” And he hates the way that the word sounds coming out of his mouth. 

Sam looks stricken, like he’s about to throw up and Dean wants to ask him if he’s okay, but he can’t find the words. “When?”

This time Dean does shrug. The tears have returned back to his brother’s eyes and Dean wants to hold him and tell him it will be okay. He kind of wants someone to hold him and tell him that everything will be okay. 

“Let’s-” Sam’s voice cracks and he clears his throat before trying again. “Let’s talk about this in the morning. You should probably sleep. You- You lost a lot of blood. And I don’t want that burn to turn into a fever.”

Dean grunts in an affirmative, letting Sam pull him to his feet. If he didn’t feel so out of it, so exhausted, he’d point out that that was exactly what Dean had wanted from the beginning. Instead he lets Sam support him to the bed. 

Sam lingers for only a moment before turning away and in a moment of panic, Dean reaches out and grabs his brother’s wrist. Sam turns startled, eyes growing with concern at Dean’s actions. 

“Don’t-” Dean tries, needing Sammy to understand, needing to relay his fear but unsure how to verbalize his need for his brother. “He only comes when you’re gone.” And Dean knows how extremely childish he sounds, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

Sam’s eyes soften, something breaking in his features. “I promise I won’t leave Dean, just let me turn off the light, okay?”

Hesitantly, Dean nods and begrudgingly releases Sam’s wrist. 

The light flicks off and Dean listens as Sam makes his way back over to the beds, pausing briefly before turning towards Dean’s bed. The covers are turned back and Dean instinctively moves over. They haven’t done this in years, since they were children, somehow more innocent than they could ever be now. But Dean feels just childish enough not to comment when Sam slips into bed beside him. In fact he may even smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Will try to get a few more things out soonish, but no promises.
> 
> Leave a comment and make my day!
> 
> God bless,  
> Jamie


End file.
